2. In the days that are gone, As to timber and stone, Decay was by no means a shy 'un, a shy 'un. He bolted our floors, And our vessels by scores, And the thirsty old rot was a dry 'un, a dry 'un! Oak crumbled beneath The dry blast of its breath, As soon as it e'er came a-nigh 'un, a-nigh 'un; But gone is the day Of that glutton Decay, Since he can't eat his timber with Kyan, with Kyan!
3. Say—now—what shall we steep In the tank? just to keep.— Shakespeare sniffed our great secret, the sly 'un, the sly 'un! Hamlet, Macbeth, and Lear, Have been Kyan'd, my dear, By Nature's immortal Paul Pry 'un, Paul Pry 'un. Shall the plays of the day Take a plunge from decay? (There is no need for Tell, or for Ion, for Ion;) I fear he could not Soak away the dry-rot From some things:—But all rests on Kyan, on Kyan.
4. Put the lid on the tank,— Not a crack for a plank,— While I point out one thing, as I fly on, I fly on, Which really must not Have a dip 'gainst dry-rot,— Stuff with cotton the ears of my Kyan, my Kyan. In a whisper I speak, (But 'twill rain for a week,— Or as long as St. Swithin will cry on, will cry on,—) The moment I make Your conviction awake That Vauxhall wants no plunge 'gainst the dry 'un, the dry 'un.
5. Do not dip many books In our anti-rot nooks; Keep out novels, and all Sense cries Fie on! cries Fie on! Though, since Wood turns sublime In its strife against time, Most heads that we know, will try Kyan, try Kyan. Only think what great good 'Twould do Aldermen Wood, (Elected for life) if they'd try 'un, they'd try 'un;— Every word that I say Is as true as the day, And each hint you may safely rely on, rely on!
6. Then, hurrah! come uncork! This dry-rot is dry work; Bring the bottle,—that one I've my eye on, my eye on; My spirit I'd steep In its rich anti-deep, And linger for morn, like Orion, Orion! 'Gad the secret is out, We've talk'd so much about; My dog's on the scent,—oh! then hie on, then hie on! 'Tis the bottle, I feel, Makes immortal mere deal, And wine's the solution of Kyan, of Kyan! R.
THE ORIGINAL OF
"NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD."
Scrap, No. III.
Water-grass-hill.
When single-speech Hamilton made in the Irish Commons that one memorable hit, and persevered ever after in obdurate taciturnity, folks began very justly to suspect that all was not right; in fact, that the solitary egg on which he thus sat, plumed in all the glory of incubation, had been laid by another. The Rev. Mr. Wolfe is supposed to be the author of a single poem, unparalleled in the English language for all the qualities of a true lyric, breathing the purest spirit of the antique, and setting criticism completely at defiance. I say supposed, for the gentlemen himself never claimed its authorship during his short and unobtrusive lifetime. He who could write the "Funeral of Sir John Moore," must have eclipsed all the lyric poets of this latter age by the fervour and brilliancy of his powers. Do the other writings of Mr. Wolfe bear any trace of inspiration? None.